Conversations in pubs - and I'm sure this is true of every pub in Britain - now revolve around ways of tormenting David Blaine. People are throwing eggs at his box. Barbecues are being lit underneath his cage to create delicious aromas. A website called "Wake David" is devoted to disrupting his sleep. Laser pens are being pointed into his eyes, giving him a brief panic that he was being sniped. People of this country, I salute you. I've never felt so proud to be British. Here are the top ideas that are bouncing around the pubs that I've been drinking in... Throw sausages at him. (I like this one) During the stages of starvation where hallucinations occur, project Eraserhead onto the side of his box. Set up another box alongside him and tuck into a delicious ham shank. (The Sunday Sport thought of this one, too) Render the whole spectacle meaningless by filling his water pipe with Mulligatawny soup. Get a helicopter, steal his box, and take him to Count Duckula's time travelling castle. Get drunk and shout at him. (I like this one too) However, all these isolated attempts need a little co-ordination to boost their effectiveness. Even my group of around 15 people who've shown an interest aren't enough to truly change the world in the way I feel that throwing sausages at David Blaine could. So I write a letter to London's free commuter paper, The Metro, inviting everyone in London. This is David Blaine's girlfriend. She fucks magicians.

September 11...